


playing dice with the universe

by sunburst



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Good Omens Fusion, Angels and Demons, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Light Pining, M/M, chan is interested in causing problems, wonwoo owns an infinite number of cats
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-16
Updated: 2020-09-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:07:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26431648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunburst/pseuds/sunburst
Summary: “Well, Chan,” said the angel Wonwoo calmly, “perhaps better not to do this again.”“This?”“I mean you doing the good thing, and me doing the bad one."
Relationships: Jeon Wonwoo/Lee Chan | Dino
Comments: 10
Kudos: 54
Collections: A Sip of Summer Wine





	playing dice with the universe

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt:  
> good omens au. chan sauntering vaguely downwards and then being an overachieving demon. wonwoo's bookshop is full of cats and only opens after 5pm because that's when he wakes up. they're in love. 
> 
> enjoy <333

“People couldn't become truly holy, he said, unless they also had the opportunity to be definitively wicked.”

\- Terry Pratchett, _Good Omens_

**London, 2020**

“Come live with me,” Wonwoo said.

Chan nearly choked on his own tongue. The ducks went flapping in alarm. 

Wonwoo watched them go, his arms hanging at his sides, relaxed and patient. He wasn’t the kind of being who offered up any easy answers. He was a bit like the Almighty that way, Chan figured. Like some humans, too. Comfortable with ineffability.

Chan was different. Chan was up or down, good or bad, Heaven or Earth, and he’d chosen Earth. And he’d thought, too, that he was the one to surge into things. Through the centuries he’d become a body made of snap decisions, hastily wrought revolutions, always the tip of the forked tongue, never the tail. History changed quickly, and Chan couldn’t afford to fall behind.

So it was strange, very strange indeed, when he cleared his throat and dug his fingernails into his palms and asked Wonwoo, “Are you sure?” 

  
  


**In The Beginning**

“Excuse you,” said the angel of the Eastern Gate, mildly offended. He was smiling with a closed hard mouth, and his arms were crossed across his chest as if he was hugging himself.

Chan hadn’t been expecting that kind of a response to his question and hadn’t been expecting that kind of a voice, either. It was deep and a bit round at the edges. He might have compared it to a piece of Dove chocolate if such a thing had been invented yet. 

But it hadn’t. So Chan didn’t quite get there on his own.

“Didn’t mean to insult you,” he said, frowning as much as he could with his serpentine face. “Only— it was flaming like anything. And I heard it was a present direct from you-know-who? And…”

The angel’s face took on a profoundly unimpressed expression. 

“And you’re wondering why I gave it away? If it was all part of the Plan?”

“Well— yeah.” 

The angel looked down at Chan, at his sad coiled-up form. 

“No. It was my own decision.”

If Chan had eyebrows he would’ve raised them to the heavens. In the literal sense. He chortled up at the angel’s impassive face.

“You— you _chose_ to give them the flaming sword?”

The rain was beginning to descend in thick lashings. The angel’s mouth crept up on one side again. His arms stayed folded, but he unfurled a gossamer white wing and held it above him.

“It seemed like the logical thing to do,” he said. He looked out at the horizon as if he didn’t want Chan to read his true reasoning. “There are many creatures out there in the wilderness, and the storm’s approaching. It’s a bad one. It simply wouldn’t do to send them out without any form of protection.”

Chan tried not to laugh. Typical for an angel to be so high-handed, admitting to no softness inside. “It sounds horrendously sensible,” he said darkly.

The angel ignored his sarcasm. “Yes. I thought so.”

“But sensibility— over the Ineffable Plan? It makes sense to me, but for someone like you to think that way…”

“Well, you did the apple, didn’t you?” The angel was on the defensive, clearly wondering if Chan was having a go at him. “Giving them all that knowledge, all that… self-aware know-how. I think it’s something one of _my_ kind would’ve done.” 

He took a searing breath, his pale princely face returning to its fixed aloof smile. “Demons can get in trouble, you know. Doing the right thing.”

Chan hissed, and disliked the noise that came from his forked tongue. This was the straw that broke the camel’s back. (Camels hadn’t been invented yet, but Chan had seen the blueprints.) He’d officially had it with this stupid serpent shape. He wanted warm blood.

“Alright, let’s give it a sodding rest for now, Your Holiness. Look away for a bit, would you.”

The angel sighed, already long-suffering, but complied. When he looked back, Chan had taken on a human form.

“What d’you think?” Chan asked.

The angel uncrossed his arms in interest, smiling with teeth, this time. 

“The chin’s cute. The eyes are quite the same, though.” 

He leaned closer to look. Chan stopped himself from stepping away and instead held steady, making the whole thing into some kind of bizarre staring contest. 

The rains had picked up during their conversation, the sands pockmarked with pressure from the water. A stray droplet spattered itself onto Chan’s new glasses, and he wrinkled his face, flexing unfamiliar muscles. The angel stepped closer, the gentle curve of his wing now wholly enveloping the demon’s shorter form. His shoulder brushed Chan’s.

“You don’t need to,” Chan said. He shook out his own sodden pitch-black wings as proof. But the angel only shrugged, and kept his gauzy feathers over both their heads.

They looked out at the distant eternal sands once more. The flaming sword so boldly bequeathed to Adam and Eve haloed around their dark bronze skin as they receded into the difficult horizon.

“What do you call yourself?” Chan asked, looking at the noble profile next to him.

“I’m Wonwoo. And you?”

“The thing is,” said Chan, “I quite dislike my given name.”

“Which was?”

“Dino.”

“Ah,” Wonwoo said. “An unfortunate practical joke.”

“He said it’ll make sense in a few millenia,” Chan said sourly, “when those scientists in England start digging up the countryside, whatever that means.”

“And what’s your new name?”

“Chan.”

“Well, Chan,” said the angel Wonwoo calmly, “perhaps better not to do this again.”

“This?”

“I mean you doing the good thing, and me doing the bad one.”

He studied Chan, appraising. Behind his spectacles, his smiling eyes danced on, like the flaming sword itself was flickering eternally with his being. 

Chan had to look away.

“Right,” he said, clearing his throat. He was feeling a touch off balance and didn’t quite know why. “Right you are, Wonwoo.”

  
  


**Mesopotamia, 3004 BC**

The unicorn went galloping. “This is ridiculous,” he muttered under his breath, expecting nothing but embarrassed human silence in response. When he was, instead, met with a fairly empathetic sigh from very close by, it startled him. 

He turned to find the angel of the Eastern Gate standing at his shoulder. Wonwoo, the angel. The angel Wonwoo. The Enemy. Bollocks.

“What’re you doing here,” Chan said with no small amount of irritation, which mainly stemmed from the surprise of seeing Wonwoo’s unreadable face so close to his.

“Well, I’ve come to see them off, I suppose. And you? What are _you_ doing here? Chan?”

He didn’t exactly appreciate the way his name sounded when it rolled off Wonwo’s tongue like that. One perfect, easy sound in the deep voice— conjured with an amount of certainty, as if the angel had been long imagining it in his head. Wonwoo seemed to be quite a measured kind of being, all-in-all, despite his everpresent tempered smile. Chan found him bizarre.

“Just here for the show,” Chan said, observing the Ark once more. He could still feel Wonwoo watching him. He kept his grin sharp and pointed. “Two of each isn’t very much, don’t you think? If one gets sick, well, there’s only one more left. And then—”

Wonwoo hummed. He hadn’t taken his eyes off Chan the entire conversation, Chan could tell. No— he could feel it, that odd languid interest that Wonwoo didn’t bother to hide. When the angel remained silent, Chan shifted to and fro on his heels, itching. 

“D’you think this is a good thing,” he said abruptly, when he couldn’t take it any longer.

“Pardon?”

“This…” Chan made a sweeping motion at the humans who were before them, watching Noah load the animals into the ark, anxious, awaiting an as-of-yet unknown horror. He was learning that he rather enjoyed humans, strangely enough. Which wasn't the best thing, given that he was a demon. “You know. All of this. Wiping them out. It’s, well. It’s a lot. No? Don’t you think?”

“I suppose it’s partly justified. They have been a bit bad.”

“Then you understand why I empathize? I think it’s— I don’t know. I don’t like it.”

“I thought you’d have been enjoying this. Isn’t this the kind of thing your lot would’ve loved to orchestrate?”

Chan frowned. “No. No, I don’t think so.”

Wonwoo looked at him with those quicksilver eyes. Just looked.

“Well, don’t get me wrong, I’m very dedicated to— to tripping the humans up. Although surprisingly they get around to doing that just fine on their own.” Chan was unsure why he felt the need to explain further, but he did. “This is beyond that, though. I suppose someone like _you_ has no choice but to go along with it. If I had a little less oversight, if I had fewer supervisors watching my every move, I would’ve tried to— I don’t know. Do _something._ They’re not all bad, you know. I would’ve—”

He petered off, suddenly aware that his voice had risen, that his words had become rushed and gripped in some violent and desperate conviction.

“Well,” Wonwoo said, and his tone had lost some of its utter ambivalence, “you sound very serious about it, darling.”

Chan scowled out of embarrassment more than anything else. 

“You wouldn’t understand,” he muttered sourly. 

As the last animal entered the Ark, the heavens opened up. In the first few seconds, it felt welcoming. But then it grew in hunger, the ceaseless patter of drops becoming a rush of furious intent, needling at their skin.

“After the storm, the Almighty will put up something called a ‘rain-bow,’” Wonwoo announced loudly, to be heard over the cacophony of thunder and panicking locals. His voice managed to keep its polite measured cadence. Chan hated it. “It’ll be rather pretty. I’m assuming you’ll stay to see it?”

When Chan didn’t respond, Wonwoo sighed. He unfurled his wing once more over them, heedless of the poor humans scurrying like ants around them looking for futile shelter. He stepped close, his hand brushing Chan’s in a gentle bruise of warmth.

“We really ought to stop meeting in such weather,” he said softly, and Chan didn’t look at him, but bowed his dripping head in graceless and dejected thanks.

**Ancient Rome, 300**

“Oh, fancy seeing _you_ here? Come to ogle the gladiators? Can't blame you.” Besides, you couldn't get a decent drink in Heaven to save your life. Chan thought it horrendously boring. He tugged up the edge of his gold-trimmed toga and slid into the seat next to Wonwoo.

“I don’t _ogle_ _,_ ” Wonwoo said, grinning into his house brown. “I observe. I study _._ ”

“Ah, ah, of course. Some of whatever’s strongest,” he called to the bartender.

Wonwoo reached over and tweaked at Chan’s gaudy laurel wreath. “Quite the little philistine these days, aren’t we?”

“Phili-what?”

“Never you mind. In Rome long?”

“Just here for a little temptation. The usual. You?”

“Here on some business.”

“Ooh. Ineffable business?”

“No, no. I’m perusing the Bibliotheca Ulpia. It takes quite a few days to make rounds of all the sections, you see. The Romans are doing _remarkable_ things with recessed bookcases…”

“Uh huh.”

Wonwoo’s face was as serious and impassioned as Chan had ever seen it, which was kind of fascinating. “In fact, you might learn a lot if you came along. Perhaps I could tempt you to—”

Chan cleared his throat. 

“Ah, but of course. I’d quite forgotten I was leaving the temptations up to _you_.”

They drank in a brief amenable silence. Chan, as usual, couldn’t keep quiet for long.

“Don’t you think this place has a generally insidious air of moral decay and vice and corruption?”

“Changed your tune since the Ark?”

Chan frowned. “How d’you mean?”

“I mean back then you seemed…saturated with a kind of innocence, or optimism. About the inherent goodness of humans.”

He said all of it at a clipped sort of pace, conversationally. Chan tried to stop himself from getting worked up.

“No, no. I think I’ve come to learn that the good and the bad live side by side inside of them. A bit strange for us to consider, you know, being angels and demons and supposedly one hundred percent on either side, but humans live in a kind of… in-between place. Morally speaking.”

“I see.” Wonwoo looked like he wanted to say something else, but as always, reconsidered himself with care. “Your question. I suppose it’s like any other place on Earth.”

“You’re not getting it. What would you say if I told you some Germanic tribes on the border are feeling particularly inspired lately?”

Wonwoo took a moment to process, then leaned closer. “Chan, are you suggesting you’re orchestrating the downfall of Rome?”

When he only grinned, Wonwoo shook his head. “My, but you _are_ a bit overzealous, aren’t you?”

All the same, he pushed his chalice against Chan’s in what was meant to be an approximation of a toast, and laughed. There was a certain sincere fondness in his eyes. 

“ _Salutaria._ I suppose it’s about time the sun set on the Empire. The politicians are getting more obviously ridiculous by the day.”

“That’s what I’m saying! If I’m here on Earth to foment dissent and discord and make history, it should be helping things towards progress. A growth mindset, one of your kind would call it.”

“Foment’s a complex word, where’d you learn it from?”

“Oh, sod off."

**The Kingdom of Wessex, 537**

“It’s me,” came the halfhearted call from the beyond the swirling mist. “I’ve come from the Round sodding Table and all. Come on out, O Black Knight, whenever you’re ready…” 

Chan emerged promptly from the haze of the forest sweating bullets in his chunky armor, walking a little stiltedly. His enthusiasm and bloodlust weren’t diminished by his awkward entrance, though, and he struck a theatrical pose with both hands on the hilt of his sword. 

“You have sought the infamous Black Knight, Foolish One! Many have come before you, but none have bested me. Prepare for your eternal damnation to hell! I shall now give you a few seconds to say your prayers, or simply beg for mercy, if you are an atheist.”

The knight before him lifted his visor. A familiar long nose beneath sweat-slicked curls.

“Say, is that you under there, Chan?”

Chan deflated instantly. He’d know that bemused tone anywhere. He lifted his own visor with a regretful sigh. 

“Course it’s you,” he muttered. 

“You really _are_ something of an overachiever,” Wonwoo said with amazement. “What’s all this?”

Chan stuck his sword in the dirt and leaned on the pommel. “I just wanted in on the fun. Besides, the king’s too smiley and hand-holdy. He ought to go on some of these adventures himself instead of sending his knights.”

“I assure you it’s not for a lack of trying. The people want him to stay and rule, not go off on absurd adventures. Seokmin’s quite a good king, all in all. No complaints from me.”

“Yes, yes, he’s very…kind, et cetera, so I’ve heard. But I’m meant to, you know…”

“Foment dissent and discord and make history?”

“Right.”

“Well, as you’re aware, I’m meant to foment peace and harmony.”

Chan huffed and wiped at his brow. “So basically, we’re canceling each other out. Despite, you know, you doing about half the work that I do.”

“I take exception to that. Not my fault if you go above and beyond every bloody day. I’m of the particular opinion that your standards are ridiculously high.”

Chan was beginning to get an iniquitous inkling. Wonwoo had been the Enemy for more than four thousand years now, which, if you thought about it hard enough, kind of made him a friend.

“You know, it’d be easier if we worked together.”

“How d’you mean?”

“If you held back at certain times, say, half a century here or there, and I did some extra work, just to get ahead a bit? Or….I suppose…vice-versa, occasionally?”

Wonwoo nodded thoughtfully. “Or, say, what if we sent the message back that we’d done all we needed to do, even if we did nothing at all?”

Chan frowned. “But— that would be _lying.”_

Wonwoo scoffed out a laugh. “You’re a demon. Aren’t you supposed to be good at that? And besides, the end result would be exactly the same.”

He felt thrown for a loop, swinging his sword back and forth as he thought it out. “I guess, but— but…”

“Look, I understand you’re obsessed with perfecting your work. All I’m saying is, it would be an added convenience. You’d still do _s_ _ome things_ every now and then, and maybe with the added time, it’ll be really notable somethings…I mean, look at what you did to Rome. That went down a treat. Don’t you want to do more of that rather than floundering through the mud here in goddamn Wessex?”

“Then you’d do…the bad stuff, sometimes? And I’d do—”

“Some good, yes.”

“Oh, I don’t— I don’t know.” 

“You did the apple, don’t you remember?" Wonwoo peered at him as if to look right through him. "I’m of the opinion that was good.”

“I know. But…” 

Wonwoo chewed his lip, then burst forth. “You were wrong back in Rome.”

“About what?”

“About angels and demons being on one side, or the other. You were wrong. It’s not like that.” 

Chan was deeply torn. “Hang on, I don't know about that.”

"We get to choose. I think that itself makes it ambiguous."

"I don't know."

“Come on, then.” He even stuck a hand out, a barefaced plea. 

“I’ll have to think about it,” Chan said, and it was probably the only time he'd said those words, and ever would. He wasn't sure why they came out. It startled him to hear them. 

Wonwoo, on the other hand, was more annoyed than startled. He made a noise of general frustration and withdrew his hand, then turned tail and began slogging back to his horse. 

Chan watched him go, all the way until he disappeared into the forest, pondering his proposition. There was something brand new in his voice when he’d said _you were wrong._ A kind of rough earnest desperation. Strange, for an angel to plead like that.

  
  


**Globe Theater, 1601**

“Hamlet and Horatio are _totally_ getting it on.”

“It’s much more than that,” Wonwoo insisted, scandalized, lowering his opera glasses. He cut an elegant figure in his velvet suit. “They trust each other completely. They’re made of the same stuff. Horatio hasn’t questioned him once, yet. And Hamlet loves him so much that he’s the only person in the world that he actually confides in. Savor the drama, there’s so much substance to it…”

“Yeah. Plus they’re fucking.”

_“Chan."_

William came round and they both had to shut up. “If only we’d advertised better,” he muttered, flapping his hands. “Prithee, gentles, you wouldn’t mind being a touch more generous with your reactions?”

Chan leapt at the chance, his ruff quivering in his excitement.

“To be or not to be…”

“To be! Oh, no, not!”

“That is the question. Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows…”

“Oh, yes, arrows, brilliant. Very noble indeed!” Chan elbowed Wonwoo. “Hey, he’s pretty good. His expressions and all? What a thing, this— theater. Acting stuff. People are sort of amazing if you think about it.”

“Yet do I fear thy nature; it is too full o' the milk of human kindness,” Wonwoo said, like the words had come to him in a dream. 

“You what now?”

“Oh, that’s quite good,” William muttered. “I must write that down.”

Chan saw that the angel was studying him, arms crossed, brow somewhat furrowed. They both lapsed into bemused quiet. 

He was unsure why Wonwoo’s mood had changed so suddenly. Must be because Hamlet was seriously going through the ringer and all. A respectful silence did seem best, although it seemed to agitate William a little.

Wonwoo himself broke the hush at the end of Act III.

“I have a minor blessing to perform in Edinburgh. I hear you’re headed that way as well?”

“Yes, I have a temptation to do.”

“See…this blessing involves me riding a horse…very hard on the backside, and I believe I’m somewhat allergic…”

“Are you suggesting.”

“Well.”

Chan sighed. “One of us goes and does both the tempting and the blessing?”

“You usually seem quite excited about doing the extra work, and I’m more than happy to provide.”

“Call it on a coin,” Chan challenged him. “Then we both have an equal chance. If it’s heads, I’ll do the work.”

Wonwoo dug inside his purse and deftly flipped a shilling.

“It’s…tails,” he muttered, but he was smiling. “Damn!”

Chan burst into obnoxious laughter, clapping his hands, bowing his head, the whole deal. “You’ve bested yourself.”

Wonwoo grumbled his displeasure under his breath. Next to them, William was still fluttering around in agitation. “This is a disaster,” the playwright ranted. “It’d take a bloody miracle to get anyone to come and see this.”

Both heard the words. Wonwoo was unchanging except for a single raised eyebrow and a bump against Chan’s shoulder.

“Oh, oh, alright, I’ll do that one. A little demonic miracle. My treat.”

Something in Wonwoo’s expression then was hard to look at directly, something almost imperceptible. Chan wondered when Wonwoo had started looking at him like that. When it had gotten hard to ignore. Wonwoo pressed his shoulder into Chan’s again, slower this time, softer.

“You would do that? For me?”

“I still prefer the historical ones, you know,” Chan said, in lieu of an answer.

  
  


**Paris, 1793**

It hadn’t gone quite as he’d planned. From his place chained to the wall of the Bastille, he could hear the hordes chanting: Off with their heads! Or at least that’s what he thought it was— his French wasn’t the best. 

Wonwoo's French was probably perfect. Chan imagined he had the accent down annoyingly well and everything.

Regardless of his knowledge of the language, Chan was all for the country's revolution. In fact, he’d sort of added some gasoline to the flames. Only he somehow got a bit too wrapped up in it during all the pandemonium. Must’ve been his clothes— he rather fancied a good black lace ruffle or two. The sartorial choices of the eighteenth century were _so_ much richer than those of the seventeenth. Which was actually, if he thought about it, probably sort of part of the problem.

At the moment, though, he had more immediate concerns, being quite unfortunately stuck down in the Bastille and all. His jailer was awfully overexcited, strutting around, smirking and monologuing in a very self-satisfied manner. 

“This is a terrible mistake, ah, uh, a grand fucking _erreur_ ,” Chan whined. “Excuse my French. The paperwork’s going to be an absolute nightmare.”

The executioner went to grab him. And time froze.

“What’ve you got yourself into now?”

He turned to find a familiar figure looking deeply unimpressed. 

_“Wonwoo?_ Aren’t you supposed to be opening a bookshop in London or something?”

“Be honest. Did you start this? Wanted to add another string to your bow and all?”

Chan clicked his tongue, vehement. “Not at all, I have _no_ idea what you’re implying.” 

When Wonwoo only twisted his mouth in a wry motion, Chan amended himself. 

“Fine, I might’ve helped a little, but most of this— the humans thought it up themselves. They’re very inspired. And, see, I’m in a bit of a pickle right now because, well, I’ve been reprimanded for too many frivolous and extra temptations, so…” 

Wonwoo shook his head in disbelief, and couldn’t hide the way his eyes curved into gleaming crescents. 

“You go too fast, Chan. You ought to be careful sometimes. You’re always rushing into things.”

“Yes, yes…”

Wonwoo strode over and took both of Chan’s wrists in his, studying them briefly. And then Chan was, all of a sudden, free. The shackles went clattering to the grimy ground. Chan looked at them for a few uncomprehending beats. 

An impromptu miracle from Wonwoo, who asked for nothing in return. Who had no cause for doing what he had done, for somehow mixing himself up with Chan’s existence over all the centuries.

“Thank you,” was all he could muster. He could feel his pulse pounding under Wonwoo’s graceful fingers.

“You’re lucky I save my energy when it comes to these things,” Wonwoo said, like it was nothing. He dropped Chan’s hands and shrugged.

“Oh, Wonwoo, truly, we’re made of the same… the same stuff, you and I,” Chan said, clasping his hands, caught up in immense gratitude. “Only, you still have a place up there, and I…well, I didn’t fall so much as… as saunter vaguely downwards. How can I possibly say thanks?”

“Don’t be so dramatic. You might tempt me to a nip round the Bibliothèque de la Sorbonne, though. There’s a cafe nearby, too, with excellent crepes, if we can avoid the hordes.” 

**London, 1941**

“This _is_ the original book,” Wonwoo was insisting. From his position just outside the threshold, Chan couldn’t hear the conversation very clearly, but he knew if he stepped onto consecrated ground it’d feel like walking barefoot across hot coals, agonizing step after step.

What he could hear, though: Wonwoo was in the middle of being double-crossed by a particularly nefarious looking group of men who, for some reason, wanted a book from him. Sure enough, a few minutes later, he heard a gun click its safety off, followed by a very Wonwoo-ish sort of sigh. 

“Heavens, that’s inconvenient,” murmured his bemused low voice.

It seemed about time; Chan was all for a dramatic entrance. He strode inside the church, black trench coat flapping behind him, heralding his lithe and sacrilegious appearance. Only, the minute he entered the hallowed ground, his veins began to prickle, like a thousand stinging bees were having a field day with every inch of his skin. He danced in a very hampered way towards the altar.

“Ooh— ow— ouch—!”

“Chan,” Wonwoo muttered when he got close enough, and it wasn’t even a question. More of a bemused acceptance of the lot they had both come to take on in their mixed-up existences. He looked gaunt and on edge; he’d lost the ease of the composure he usually held himself with.

“Listen, there’s— ouch— about to be a bomb,” Chan bit out, stamping his feet around in agony.

“Pardon?”

“Over our heads— ow!— in about ten seconds.” Clearly the only one in the room taking him seriously whatsoever was Wonwoo. Chan hopped from foot to foot and directly appealed to him. “It’d take a _real miracle_ for you and me to survive it!”

Wonwoo’s eyes widened in realization just as the tell-tale whistle grew in pitch and volume, the world shuddering and clattering around them. Then the universe, for a brief few seconds, came to a particularly rubbly end.

Wonwoo emerged next to Chan from the dust and bricks. After they’d both coughed their lungs half up he found the angel wringing his hands, apparently still distressed, studying the wreckage around him with building panic.

“I had other books in there. Shit! They were first editions, too.”

Chan strolled behind what was formerly the altar and procured a heavy leather bag. 

“You mean these first editions?”

He would’ve spent an entire week dancing around another damn church just to see the look on Wonwoo’s face again. An uncharacteristically astonished stare at the bag in Chan’s hand, mouth half-open. Instead of taking the bag, he examined Chan’s face, his dark eyes unnaturally bright.

Chan cleared his throat and held the bag out further. Wonwoo finally took it in his arms smiling, a full soft smile that sort of took over his face and made Chan feel fuzzy and warm things that any other demon would never have even dreamt of feeling.

“Thank you. You have no idea how much this means to me,” he said, in the same gentle tone of voice Chan imagined he did blessings in.

Chan coughed and took off. “No sweat,” he said jauntily behind his shoulder.

Once Wonwoo had caught up and fallen into step next to him, Chan took another glance at his pleased face, the little feline curl of his mouth. “So what was that whole book thing about?”

“They offered to trade some information for it. It’s the original edition of a book of prophecies. It’s a part of my collection.”

“Sorry, wait, you have a book _c_ _ollection_? Then— then why do you run a book… _shop_? If you don’t want to sell your books?”

“I’m not an idiot. I keep the customers from buying anything.” 

“What on earth is that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, you know,” Wonwoo said. “Open at five PM, shoot them some nasty looks, enchant the cats to give off smells. The usual. I’m quite talented at putting people off.” 

He paused unaccountably in the middle street. Eventually he said without looking at Chan, “Would you like to come see it sometime?”

Chan realized the closed-off look on Wonwoo's face was a sign of nerves. He thought about teasing him, but then figured better of it. 

“I think I’d enjoy that. If you didn’t ramble on too much about the Dewey Decimal System or what have you. Let’s go, then? The Bentley's just over there."

Wonwoo inhaled sharply through his nose. “Oh— you want to go now?”

“Unless you have something better to do?”

He was staring down at the slick cobblestones like they held all the answers to the Almighty’s ineffable questions. "Your driving," he said, "is quite..."

"Nimble," Chan suggested, at the same time Wonwoo muttered _life-threatening._ "Oh, come on."

“I thought…I thought some other time? We could make a day of it.”

“Alright,” he said, feeling a spike of unaccountable annoyance at the hesitation. Or something deeper, he wasn’t sure. “Maybe next time, then, Wonwoo. I have things to do, anyways. I don’t need you to entertain me.”

Chan tucked his shoulders against the wind and the blue night and fairly jogged in the other direction, his walk blind and haphazard. He didn’t have _things to do_. Obviously. No temptations, no blessings.

This was particularly ignominious because he sorely wanted to stop thinking how Wonwoo had toed the edge of the cliff over centuries and centuries, always so careful, thoughtful, hesitant. Because it only irritated Chan. 

You know you’re tempted, so go on then, he wanted to say. Go on and jump.

**Soho, 1970**

“What’s her name?”

“I call her Cat,” Wonwoo deadpanned.

“Of course you do.” Chan picked Cat up, ignoring her indignant mewls. One of her eyes was a pure milky white. When she purred, she sounded like an ancient dusty radiator rattling, reluctant but warm.

“Just like your owner, aren’t you. Soft on the inside, I bet.”

Wonwoo pushed his spectacles up his nose, the edge of his mouth flicking up, giving him away. He was pretending to be busy behind the counter, going through his records, occasionally tugging at his black turtleneck or his suede jacket in a slight admission of his carefully concealed nerves. 

Three times now Chan had caught himself being stared at as he roamed around the shop winding around Wonwoo's other cats, each with a variety of scars and snaggleteeth and missing ears. He wondered if any of the other cats had names, or if Wonwoo simply called them _Cat_ with varying thoughtful inflections and connotations.

Chan had taken his time studying the small porcelain figurines, the Regency silver snuffboxes, the well-stocked bar tucked behind a hidden door, the messily stacked tomes and tomes of books. Alexandrian editions of Sappho, Bibles with unfortunate typos, lost Shakespeare comedies, all those volumes of prophecy. When he opened the crackling brown covers and flipped through the delicate pages he knew Wonwoo wanted to click his tongue and tell him to be careful, but held himself back every single time. 

He felt terribly endeared. The entire shop was so familiar, especially with Wonwoo as its angelic nexus. It was lit in a warm glowing yellow and smelt of tea and old buildings. It was a timeless sort of place, the kind you could imagine standing here in the cobblestone street forever and ever, long after humanity faded away. Leaving only Wonwoo sleepily flicking through his books, occasionally stopping to wipe his glasses with the end of his handkerchief, or take a sip from his mug, or laugh at a Wilde passage, or softly stroke one of his many Cats.

Chan was warm and drowsy, like he’d had a cup of coffee spiked with rum. He put Cat down and ambled up behind Wonwoo to tuck his chin into the crook of the long beautiful neck. He ignored the way the angel instinctively stiffened.

“It’s amazing,” he said, feeling his voice, round and full, against Wonwoo’s skin. A plush black cat purred on the counter beside them, her tail twitching. Chan watched Wonwoo’s hands waver. The elegant fingers fiddled with the pen, then eventually placed it down on the page. The only outward sign of turmoil. 

Chan didn’t know what possessed him then. It was as if he was suddenly suffused with some glowing soft piece of heaven. He pressed his mouth to the side of Wonwoo’s. He wanted warmth. More of it.

Wonwoo tilted his head away.

“You go too fast for me, Chan,” he said, a little brokenly.

“I understand,” Chan said, instantly backing away. Six thousand years, and he still didn't know Wonwoo entirely.

He watched Wonwoo for a long time. The imperceptible furrow pinching his eyebrows, the fastidious way he avoided looking up. The soft sound as he cleared his throat and finally leaned back and said, “I’m sorry.”

And although Chan didn’t really understand, he was trying to, desperately. So he tucked his hands into the cold leather of his jacket and made an attempt at a smile, and said, “Take your time.”

**London, 2020**

“You’re asking me if I’m certain?” 

“Well, yes.” Chan smoothed the crumpled lapels of his dinner jacket, watching the black snakeskin print ripple. “These things take deliberation and...and thoughtfulness, I suppose. I understand.”

Wonwoo had the audacity to look almost offended.

“Don’t you think that if I’ve gotten around to asking, I’ve thought it through enough?”

The ducks had returned, and looked a little sheepish. Chan watched as Wonwoo ground the wingtip of his pointy oxfords into the dirt as if to center himself. Conceding himself most permanently to the world of humans, that silly and wonderful world of embarrassment and mistimings and sin and brilliance.

“Actually, I haven’t,” Wonwoo admitted eventually. He said it loud and clear, and almost sounded amused at himself. “I haven’t thought it over much, I mean.”

Chan tried to put a name to the feeling he was getting. A bit like the very first time they’d met, when Wonwoo, so strikingly fearless, had said, _No. It was my own decision._

“You’re a bit of a surprise, you know,” he said. “All the time.”

“You’re not. The minute you gave them the apple, I knew you.”

“I’m still learning about you. Maybe it’ll never end.”

“So?”

“Alright,” Chan said.

The air was brumous and brisk, and he could hear Wonwoo’s breath catch in his throat. He stepped into Wonwoo’s space. No wings to shelter them from the world of people, no reason for it.

“This isn’t going too fast?” he asked, only half teasing. 

“Perhaps it is,” Wonwoo said, a little breathless, and then he took Chan’s hands in his, engulfing them entirely, brushing his knuckles. He leaned forward into Chan’s space, like a slow fall, a saunter downward, until they were forehead to forehead. 

Chan closed his eyes and felt Wonwoo's words move through him. 

“You ought to watch out. Any day, I’ll have caught up with you. Any day, now.”

**Author's Note:**

> am personally obsessed with wonwoo's non-bookshop  
> thank u so much for reading, talk 2 me on [twt](https://twitter.com/sunsburst) or [cc](https://curiouscat.me/sunsburst)!!


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